


Outreach

by breathe_without_lungs



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Freeform, How Do I Tag, M/M, Newt is a magical creature, Pining, World Travel, and thomas is just thomas, kinda pre-newtmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:08:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28048995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathe_without_lungs/pseuds/breathe_without_lungs
Summary: tmrss20_gift_for_nightingale231 (was this supposed to go here? ehehe)As a last frantic attempt to salvage his situation, Thomas boards the Glade, undertaking the long, dangerous journey over the Yalet Crossings. He quickly comes to know that the dangers, for him, don't lurk beneath the water.
Relationships: Newt/Thomas (Maze Runner)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 8
Collections: Maze Runner Secret Santa 2020





	1. Clash Of Cultures

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nightingale231](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightingale231/gifts).



> Writing this had me jumping with joy at one moment and then pulling my hair out in frusration the next. I've agonized over the ending again and again, having to rewrite 7 (or 8, I lost track) times but, in the nick of time, its here and my hands are officially restricted from anymore rewriting. ! Hope you enjoy!! Oh and, merry Christmas!!

Sprawling buildings abruptly came to fall as the convoy neared it’s last, land-based destination. Thomas peered through a frayed rip in the awning that was pulled tight over a wooden frame. In this minor scrap of sight, he saw other carriages coming to a shuddering stop. Galtorns rested themselves on their hindlegs, teal feather bundles whipped up by the wind, while workers swarmed them. 

He rose from his stiffened, folded position and clambered out of his wooden sojourn. His feet hitting the slap of unforgiving stones prompted his heart to throb within its brittle encasement. Scowls and screams in forneigh languages, the rattle more wheels, the ground-shaking blear of a ship’s horn and the screeching of assailing birds, the quay haboured it all. The place thrived on it. 

The young traveler sidestepped a small assembly of Nerties, their spindly tails curled around the handles of wheeled trunks. Their jutted shoulders molted into the crowd of many others. “Nowhere else will you see so many races and cultures as at the quay of Monté-Mador.” His driver had croaked when Thomas told him his destination. He twisted his head to look for the man, but found the usual spot at the forefront of the carriage empty. 

He quickly slipped away, tossing a pouch of coins into the back where the driver would hopefully find them before anyone else did. Being late as if, he couldn’t afford to linger at the edge of the harbor. He couldn’t afford to linger anywhere in this rot-riddled country either, not until he had at least a decent amount of miles of sea and land between him and his homeland. Nonetheless, the steadfast certainty that had hold over his heart the past few descents squelched under the prospect of this final departure. 

He started to wish that for a tail, like the Nerties, when his feet carried him for what must have been the third time to the same view, with the ship he was looking for still lost in a myriad of masts and sails. In this clash of cultures, Thomas still felt like an outsider. He’d been jowled at by a Vyciatish woman, who had perceived him staring at her cobwebbed skin as unfriendly, horned tails had swept over his feet, knocking him off balance, and even the mirttails didn’t seem to like him either. 

“They sense your nerves.” A voice, strangled by profound accent, spoke when yet another fiery, leaf-shaped bird sailed past his cheek, razor-like claws raking into flesh and adding to his growing collection of scratches. “Ya must be new ‘ere.” 

“Eh, yes, I… ah.” What remained of his sentence ran aground. A young, humanoid creature leaned against the soft, bouncy awning of another wagon. His blond hair lay in choppy locks around his ears in which small rhinestones stole the show. The longer Thomas looked, the more rhinestones he found; in the rings glittering around his fingers, embedded into the skin under his eyes and blinking in the sems of his clothing. Like wearing the skin of a starry night sky. 

“Name’s Newt, greenie.” The Xinti’ant’s cheeks lifted with another easy smile and the haze of allurance - that could make you spill your secrets like water through a dam - retreated enough for Thomas to be able to meet his eyes and shake the offered hand.

“Eh, T-Thomas, I’m Thomas.” He gasped for breath, but the medicine delivered as promised. His heart remained in the same steady pace as the rest his whole body kept to its inscrutable state. Safe. No signs the Xinti’ant could pick up on, no truths he could pull from his lips. 

“Where do ya need t’ be?” 

Thomas looked down at the note that was supposed to pass for his ticket clenched into his fist. The Glade. Captain Nika Saronte. 

“The- the Glade.” He muttered, skin prickling with unease. 

The name prompted another smile from Newt. “Ah, you must be one of the convoy’s travelers then…” He said, noting the paper. “The Glade’s got her own dock over there, greenie.” 

He jerked his chin to one of the larger ships, moored at a more secluded part of Monté-Mador, with granite fan sails snapping in the wind and passengers boarding at a rapid pace. “Come along, I’ll get ya on.” 

Thomas plowed into the current of people, following Newt’s head as he slipped through the crowd, while clasping his travelpack tight around his shoulders. 

~ 

With each footfall to the small platform located at the stern of the ship, the crowd stumbled deeper into an incomplete silence, mangled only by conjoined breaths, movements and a growl for some every-soul-be-damned breathin’ space, ya stupid shank.

The woman Newt had addressed with C’ptain when they boarded positioned herself on the platform, peering over the heads of the masses and pulling her lips up in a smile to reveal sharp canine teeth, tips studded with iron. With chains diving beneath her skin to surface somewhere else, patches of flesh melting off to reveal silver-coloured joints and spiked plates flattened out her chest like armour, her whole being seemed to be forged by iron and made Thomas swallow. 

Her hands fastened around an amplifier and heartbeats later her voice shredded the air. “First off, welcome aboard, and for some welcome back.” She addressed the crowd with the ease of breathing. “It’s my pleasure to announce that, after hard-needed maintenance and a little break for the wrinkled sacks among us, The Glade’s ready to leave for open sea again.” 

The captain's lips twitched upwards as cheers winked through the crowd. “Y’all must be tired, so I’ll keep it short, aye? As last year, the crossing takes fifteen to twenty days. In these days, y'all are expected to put in your own share of work, which shall be done in shifts. Don’t worry, those in regular service shall help ya with that.” She flitted a hand at a few crewmembers standing amidst shuffling newbies. 

As if that would reassure him. Thomas frowned; he knew nothing of ships, had never boarded one, let alone work on one. He knew port was right and starboard left and that’s where his limited knowledge ended. Or was it the other way around? This sloshed on for a while until his worries were uprooted by the captain, who continued her speech. 

“Y'all supposed to team up for rooms, we got rooms for two, four and six people. As for the couples the usual, keep it quiet during the nights. There are some ol’ lonely farts with us who are attached to their good night’s of sleep and an appetite in the mornin’. Dinner is at the end of the sun’s descent, there we’ll discuss more and this is also where you are able to find which shifts you’re in, those will be displayed on the main board. Big slate of wood, ‘main board’ written in some chicken scratch that is obviously not my hand-writing. Can’t miss it. That’s all, for now get seated and settled and be in the dining halls if anything needs to be cleared up.”

Captain Saronte passed the amplifier to a pair of sailors' hands and hopped off the platform, barking orders as the crowd among her scattered in her wake. 

~ 

It was well past sun’s descent when Newt watched the long tables fill themselves with passengers. The small balcony gave him a wide view of what and who trickled in. Horns, tails, spiked scales and feathers. Humans were scarce; the tedious thud of their hearts wove into the loud drone of Galtorns and was lost in the rattling mantra that was a Nerti’s heartbeat. Newt shook his head and grumbled. A human’s heartbeat never would have been so slow nor so controlled. 

“So he had a slow heartbeat. Any other signs you picked up?” Minho prodded at his plate, unfurling his lips in a snarl when the grub dripped off the edge. 

“We’re not in The Upper Fitarith, Min. Your food ain’t float ‘round.” Newt flashed him a grin. “But, no. It was like… like I was facing a blank. Dead as a Dorran.” 

“Maybe it’s his first time on Earth and he took something to quell his nerves.” The other Xinti’ant shrugged. “lt’s not unheard of.” 

Newt’s jaw screwed itself shut as he regarded what he had learned at the Capitol. “No, it weren’t those kind of nerves. He was too aware of those unspoken rules and curtsies.” 

Any soul taking on the flesh of the living displayed these frayed nerves, tightly laced within their bones until they finally learned and settled. Newt dared to say this might be Thomas’ second or even third time on Earth, but he wasn’t one of the Xintic’s higher seers and couldn’t vouch for that so he bit his tongue, keeping that thought to himself. 

Minho slid his plate in one of the tubes running through the whole dining room and watched it rattle off to the galley before he spoke. “If you’re really worried, you can always report it to the captain.” 

That prompted Newt to drive his teeth into his lips. Captain needed more than just a slow heart-beat and a gut feeling. Or maybe he just needed more. 

Eventually, the conversation drifted to all what the passengers had tried to smuggle on board The Glade and which rules were broken or kept. Folk part of a Vycaitish clan had in their steadfast vigor insisted on taking pouches loaded with various intoxicating herbs on board as per usual while on the other hand it finally seemed like the Nerties had realised that the mummified tails of their war victims were allowed on board if packaged properly. Nothing more awful than scraping half ashed flesh from the crevices of the deck. 

“Lots of refugees. Captain says she wants us to keep an eye on those too.” Minho nodded at where a few Aerniods had grouped together, their forked horns linked together in some after-meal ritual and their eyes pressed into slits or fully closed. 

Newt hummed. “Flighty bunch, indeed. Gotta go.” he muttered, before pushing himself off the ridge. A familiar set of head and shoulders darted out of the dining hall. His eyes had been tracking the brown mop of hair before his feet followed. 

Newt clambered the stairs that led to the deck, following Thomas’s scent. The first unfortunate souls had already folded themselves railing, bestowing a school of fish with whatever kind of meal their stomachs had been holding on to for too long. His feet slapped onto salted wood. 

“Thomas!” Newt watched as his head rolled to the side before pinning on him and smiled. “Found ya sea legs, I take.” He nodded at Thomas’s loaded plate. 

The human’s eyes would not settle on him. “Eh, yes, I was hungry.” 

“Heard from Brenda you traveled wit’ Yeshi’s convoy.” Newt came to lean on the railing. “That’s quite the journey to undertake on your own.” 

“Ah, yes. I got an opportunity and seized it. Didn’t really think far ahead.” Thomas’ fingers drummed on the edge of the plate as he clamped his teeth together. 

They watched the last brave mirttails stalk the masts, plummeting down before veering up to the stars while nipping at the sails. They would soon leave the dark skies of the ship too and head back to land. 

“Are you familiar with the stars?” Newt frowned and twisted his head sideways. Thomas’ eyes were on the fast ink blanket, skipping between the flickering, white dots before returning to Newt’s with the same, rueful wonder. “Considering that I am under your suspicion, I might as well tell you a thing or few.” 

A laugh gusted off Newt’s lips. “And here I was proudly thinkin’ I was being subtle. Ya wanna ease any of my suspicions, Tommy?” 

“Doesn’t that depend on if I tell you the right thing?” Thomas spun the lines of a thin smile with ease. Yet, he was still too aware of every treading pace and current and not nearly as trusting as Newt needed him to be for his suspicions to cease. No meds to quell any nerves, but he could be on something. 

Newt beriddled himself. “It might just matter, can’t spill my secrets now, eh.” He decided to take the opening and wagged his hand at the sky. “Start babbling about those sparkles then.” 

This prompted Thomas to pass his plate to Newt, dip down to retrieve a small, leather-bundled book and flick through it. “Learned some things from my father. He was an astronomer. Devoted his whole life to it. There was no time his head wasn’t craned up to the sky or peering through his telescope.” Thomas’s smile quirked down into a scowl. “My other father tried to make up for his absence, but it didn’t really help.” 

Newt tiptoed into silence and clamped his mouth shut for any feeble words of sympathy he’d usually say. Even when his parents left him standing at the gateways of the Capitol, with luggage clutched in fragil, shaking fingers, heart spedding and eyes spread wide, to finally start his long awaited study in the grant city, he hadn’t felt any shortage of comfort or warmth. Not like Thomas had. 

“The one way you could talk with him was to bring his beloved stars into it.” Thomas swallowed. “So that’s what I did.” He tapped his finger on a small drawing; dots connected with wonky lines. “That’s Pititrius and his watchers, only visible in the blue-seasons. This was his favourite and the first one he taught me about.” 

Newt licked his lips. “You speak as if you didn’t care about him, yet you learned all this.” It was a gentle prod, as how you’d poke a fallen body for any signs of life after the battle was fought and the damage was done. And this one was very much alive, Newt concluded. 

Thomas shrugged and kept his shoulders up to shield his bare neck from biting sea air, making him small and his shadow childlike. “Guess I did care, at some point.” 

Newt watched as the young human wrapped the book back in its leather bindings with such care that belied his words and most likely did nothing but alter the knife that had forced from pain and indignation. Silence gained a staggering rhythm before Newt broke it. 

“Have you found anyone to room with yet?” He asked, while eying the shadow of a lone travelpack propped up against one of the beams. 

Thomas followed his gaze and scratched the back of his neck. “Eh, no, not yet.” 

Newt huffed. “Well, you’re with me then, greenie.” 

As they walked through the swaying halls to the aft, Newt explained the position of the Xinti’ants on board the Glade and kept up a relaxed patter of words. Thomas, on the other, kept a tight lid on the pits of his mind, like the conversation on the deck had been a hair’s width away from intrusive. Newt gave up when he, for the fourth time, darted around a question with agility of a fleeing fox. It didn’t matter. If all went right, Newt would get him to talk soon enough. 

~ 

The medicine was nearing its end. 

Thomas clutched his traveling pack that harboured the new vails while Newt skittered through the room, clearing out a space. The interior of the room was clearly meant as for someone more permanent. His eyes bounced from a small desk to the bed with a rumpled coverlet thrown over it and then a bookshelf filled with rolls of parchment, maps, books, a round flash of silver - which shared an uncanny resemblance with a handcuff - and other trinkets 

“Here,” Newt handed him a woolen blanket. 

Thomas went over the other bed. In three strides he could get to the other side of the room. To the door in four strides. This was doable. He’d bolted away from places far more perilous. 

“You’ll be alright with that?” Newt jerked his head to the bed. 

Thomas nodded. “Expected it to be smaller…” he mumbled as he swept his eyes through the room.

“C’ptain dislikes cramped spaces.” 

Thomas wrung out his tongue and mind for something to fill with silence with. “Ehm, yes, that explains.” 

Newt grinned again. The Xinti’ant did that more often, as if his trust could be bought with them. Thomas smothered his garbled thoughts and dove for his travelpack. His hand enclosed around the soft, lulling neck of his teddy bear. A faint clink of glass vials sounded as he set it on the bed. Thomas hoped it went disguised by the bell he’d tied around the neck of Mr Poofpaws. 

“Who’s that?” Newt had drawn his knees up his chest, sitting on the edge of the bed, flexing his rhinestoned hands. 

“Eh, Mr.- Mr. Poofpaws.” His hand rose up to his neck. “My other father gave it to me. He helps with the loneliness.” 

The corner of Newt’s mouth sagged. Thomas smoothened the frown off his face and turned his back to his new roommate, dismissing any sign of pity. It wasn’t a complete lie. Long ago, it had been the teddy bear's purpose, but long ago was also when it still sufficed. Now it proved to be the ideal hiding spot for a forbidden drug. 

“Well,” Newt folded his legs from underneath him. “I’m on night watch, so I’ll see ya in the mornin’. G'night, greenie.” 

Thomas couldn’t quite keep himself from repeating the words and receiving a smile from Newt.


	2. Sail A Sea Of Fog

Newt drew his cloak in a tighter fit around his shoulders as a last defense against the seeping touch of the mist. The tongues of flames flickered in the waxy realms as he thrusted the lantern ahead of him. The hunched, shrunken shadows of workers and passengers alike darted past him, murmuring greetings or nothing at all, while fleeing from the deck. Newt didn’t blame them. 

The cold, desolate mist of A Soul’s Passage had traveled south on raging storms. Now it was their unwanted blanket, robber of sight and starter of tensions between the tribes on board the ship. “The Devil exhales.” A Nerti had hummed to him before steeling themselves and setting to work on some crude knots. 

Newt closed in on a young human who, with shaking hands and a fluttering heartbeat, fiddled with a pulley. “’S okay. You head inside, I got it.” he whispered, sending her off, before hanging the lantern on a hook. The wind lulled around the sails, barely stirring them. Even the smallest buggin’ flame could be kept alive without the protection of glass. 

It was not long before Newt’s bones too were sent hurtling for some warmth. He padded through the halls, trailing his hands over the beaten wooden panels. 

“The storms in the south have died down, it shouldn’t be long now-” Nika looked up from where she and the boatsman Cortë had curved themselves over a map as Newt entered the cabin. “Look who finally sailed in! No trouble on deck?” 

Newt shook his head, grinning. “All bright ‘n cheery, C’ptain. No more fights.'' 

“At least thah mist’s good for somethin’.” The boatsman croaked, while skating his hands over his chest and nose in some western Sintel-prayer. 

“Hmm, still, I’d rather see it go. Where’s Minho at?” The captain handed him a small mug filled to the brim with a hefty liquor. 

“He’s still on deck, said he’d be down la’er.” Newt dipped his lips over the rim, crushing the urge to gulp it down in one take. 

“Well, nothing new, the plans stay the same.” She said, tapping a finger on the map. “We head for Ortji and wait there for the Myatasaur.” 

The boatsman grunted. “We’re not waitin’ for a third ship, captain? Even when crossing with two ships, it’s quite the risk.” 

“I know, mate, I know.” The captain frowned, tiredness stamping its bruising marks on her face and words. “But we can’t afford to wait for a third ship. The blue season is upon us and I don’t want to be out on the Crossings when the ice comes. We’ve traveled the Yalet Crossings on our own before, even without the help of the Myatasaur.” 

Newt leaned closer to the table to where the captain’s finger was still rooted on the map and a dot representing the Myatasaur steadily braving through A Soul’s Passage and it’s hordenous mists. 

“At that pace, they’ll reach Dorrich in about three days.” Newt mumbled. 

Nika brushed her hand over the map. “Exactly. I hope that by then we’ve reached Ortji-” 

“Not with these winds, ‘m afraid. We’re barely catching any speed.” Newt eyed Nika’s profile as it wrinkled.

“Tell me somethin’ I don’t know yet…” She grumbled. "Cortë, how much fuel do we have left?” 

“Eh,” The boatsman jerked up from his slouched rest, liquid sloshing over the edge of his mug. “I’d say enough for us to reach Ortji, but then we’d have to restock there, can’t risk coming without it like last time.” 

The captain nodded, as if she knew the path and was done testing its side roads. “Very well, fuel it is, then. Go tell the shovelers.”

Cortë hurtled out of the room after leaving a spinning cup on the table. 

Nika straightened up and started tugging the weights of the map’s corners, muscles strung tight beneath her skin. “What’s your take on this, Newtie?” 

Newt rolled his eyes. “I think you’re doing a good job as usual,” His voice ran dry, the walls of his throat too thin and fragile to progress such onslaught of grief. “Alby- he would have made the same decisions, Nik.” 

“I know…” Her gaze crawled up like an injured man. “I just don’t want to lose anymore people, not like last time.” 

Newt clamped his free hand down on her steeled shoulders. “We won’t, Nika. I promise.” 

~ 

A roar swelled from deep within the ship and shuddered through wood and air. Thomas stumbled as the Glade jerked forward, ropes falling from his hands. The engines pounded like hunted heartbeats. 

“Hoist the sails, ya lazy boatrats. We’re traveling on fuel now.” The grubby boatsman bellowed from above the upper deck, ordering them to work. 

Thomas flung himself, along with others to the ropes, shrouds and pulleys as Cortë went on shouting instructions. The rope rasped through his hand as the mist wafted in his face and the floor swung beneath him. All Souls damned to Earth, he’d give anything for some steady ground under his feet but Thomas knew he’d have to set foot on a vessel far more often. He screwed his jaw shut and heaved down on the rope. 

More experienced hands made quick work of hoisting the sails. Soon, the masts of the Glade were nothing but bare twigs stretching their ends high as if wanting to snatch the stars from the sky and the boatsman called them to a halt. 

Thomas stared down at his hands, skin flaking off and covered in raw, pulsing blisters. Even all the work he’d done on the farms could not have prepared his skin for this salted labor. His work back at home had consisted of scrambling through grain fields, puffing as the blazing sun scalded over his back and sorting through tools in search for a shovel that wasn’t on the verge of falling apart. 

A shoulder brushed past his. “You should get some ointments from those wounds, before they get infected.” 

A lantern was held aloft by an arm cloaking into thick mist before being drawn closer to illuminate the face of the stranger. Minho, Newt’s friend and the one giving Thomas the occasional friendly, albeit harsh, pat on the back. Orange light glinted in tiny, powdery rhinestones implanted into skin and washed over studded teeth. Though his smile was nothing but kind, Thomas recoiled. 

“Eh, yes,” Nails drove into the palms of his hands. “Where can I-” 

“The medical bay. It’s next to the captain’s quarters.” The Xinti’ant swung the lantern to the upper deck. “The last door at the end of the hall.” He added then angled away from him.

On the Xinti’ant’s instructions, Thomas veered into a hall, taking note of the small cravings on the wall in a forlorn language. There were few words he recognized, snippets from lessons he took back home. There were words in Tierish and a few classic sayings from The Upper and Lower Fitarith that had spread throughout the entire Unbound Four, but what stood out the most were the strange arrays of symbols that interrupted the stream of words like beads in a loom. 

The shadow of his hand stretched over the symbols as he uncurled his hand, rolling his weight to the tips of his toes. Bold curls crossed blades with jagged ends, while others intertwined more peacefully. 

“Those are Icarish symbols, from the ancient desert script.” The voice thundered out of nowhere. 

With a breathless scream, Thomas rocked back on his heels, heart dangling from the gallows. A creature swaddled in long, papery robes just a scale shy from mopping the floors had glided over to him. As they raised their hand, bands of leather with small pills stitched to them slid down their bare wrists. “You will need some salves for those blisters.” 

With some slight falter, he placed his hand in a fingerless clump of flesh. They yanked him closer. “Yes… some biascys wrappings will do the trick.” They slissed. “Come with me.” 

Thomas trailed behind, studying the leather belts that ran over the robes and strapped various corked flasks in place. They swiveled left, grazing past the door frame. Thomas slowed his strides. 

The medical bay was a room withheld of the desks, bookshelves - though it seemed only Newt had space to waste on a bookshelf - and closets. Shelves with arched frames rooted in the corners, feathered out over the ceiling then tapered off into a raised wooden slate to serve as examination table and as display for a variety of tools. 

The knife stood out like a beacon, water amidst the flames, with enticing promises glittering in its steel for whoever curled their hands around its leaden handle. An obfuscating control - one should not wish to possess - over the air that drifted in and out lungs, the beating hearts in any chest, and screams or silence at their choosing. No medicine could prevent these spindles of his mind from unraveling.

“Are you listening, young human?” The creature had stalked the walls, feet sucking around the arboreal structure and now twisted their head to look at him. Thomas choked in a cry of half-voiced horror as murky, yellow eyes blinked at him. 

“Jumping after a drowning man is just as bad pushing him in.” 

“W-what?” Thomas staggered away from them, wrists slashing over wood. 

The creature smirked, then tossed him the pouch they had plucked from the shelf. “That’s what the symbols say.” 

~

In favour of planting himself on one of the cramped benches in the dining hall, but also to avoid another blood-curdling encounter with a Ziiran, Thomas took his plate out on the deck and lifted his gaze to the sky. 

Newt had frowned when Thomas stumbled to his feet, trembling and only able to breathe in rattling gasps. “Are you alright? Why are ya runnin’ like the bloody Devil himself is ya shadow, Tommy?” The Xinti’ant tugged him closer, eyes sweeping over his face. “Tommy?” 

“I think Axilae pulled one of their tricks again, Newt.” The captain had jerked her chin at the pouch crushed in his hand. “You take him to his room. I’ll talk to them.” A cold, gentle hand had ruffled through his hair as the captain passed. “You’re excused from the rest of your tasks for today. Make sure you get some rest, littl’ one.” 

Besides that, the conversations flying over the dinner tables weren’t really up his ally either. Thomas felt heath rise in his cheeks; that joke about handcuffs, directed to Newt, had sent his mind off the rails. 

With a twist of his wrist, his remains of his meal slid off the plate and dissolved into the ceaseless swirls of the sea. The skin of his hands had dried out in a stiff, crusted layer but the strange leaves from the pouch had done their job in restoring it. In spite of that, he ought to avoid the medical bay as best as he could. If the Ziiran didn’t provide enough reasons already, the reaction the knife had precipitated sure did. 

Thomas, was in fact, no better than his father. In the same way his father devoted his life to the stars, he had devoted his life to finding a way to banish what resided within him, boarding the Glade being his last outreach in the dark. And then, if this shaped up to be yet another misguided venture, he had nothing. No more options. The notion dragged his heart to his stomach.

The wobbly scuff of boots over the deck prompted him to lift his head. Newt, with a steaming plate balancing on his fingertips, swayed towards him, tossing ropes aside with the nose of his shoe. 

“Hey,” Thomas’ breath puffed and molded into mist. “Aren’t you supposed to sit with the other crew members?” 

Newt, though standing out like a delicate flower, had been far more at home amongst the others, tossing jokes often far worse than some remark about handcuffs and having absolutely no qualms with said handcuffs.

Newt shrugged then tore off a piece of bread. “Nah, your company is a much more pleasant option.” The Xinti’ant gently prodded Thomas between his ribs, smirking. “Handcuffs, huh? That’s where you drew the line?” 

The plate nearly slipped from his limp grasp. Of course, Newt would have noticed his hasty escape from the dining halls. “Ehm, I- well…” Thomas sputtered. “Not to- eh, berate you for what you like-” 

“What I like, Tommy? And who told you that?” He could hear a smile starting to flourish in Newt’s voice. 

Thomas choked on his breath, mind groping for whatever scraps of dignity he could preserve. “I-I mean- eh. You… what? But the captain said- they said, they kept making remarks about how you like… handcuffs?” He stammered into silence, no desire for his gravedigging to hit the sandy bottom far beneath their feet. 

Newt’s body near toppled over the edge of the railing, altering between laughing and shaking his head. “You have a lotta nerve to make such assumption, dear Tommy.” 

Thomas groaned and let his head sink into his hand, the other lifting his plate to shield his face from Newt’s twinkling eyes. 

“Doesn’t mean it ain’t true, though.” 

Now the plate fell. With a light plop, Thomas watched it shimmy down to the sea floor with muted horror and something else tightly coiling in his chest. At least something would be reaching the sandy seafloor. 

“Ai, Tommy. If I knew you’d react like this, I might have brought it on sooner.” He felt Newt’s hand land on his back, the warmth burning straight through. After another beat of silence, the Xinti’ant seemed to pity Thomas and continued on. “C’ptain wanted to know how you were doin’.”

“Erm, I’m fine.” He forced his eyes to settle on Newt’s before caving in and bringing them back to where the bow cut through the water, heath slipping up his spine. His shoulders trembled ever so slightly as the ship underneath them thrummed. “What are those Ziir-creatures?” 

“Zi-irans. Ortji’s natives.” Newt slid the plate onto a crate with a dry rasp of stone over wood then settled on the railing. “We have an alliance with them, so that we can dock there. On the Myatasaur you’ll find even more of them. Don’t worry,” he added when Thomas gulped. “They’re not all like Axilae.” 

“Oh, that’s… a relief.” His heart continued at its regulated pace and he folded his arms around his chest, fingers digging into the soft flesh. 

Newt took another piece of bread and cleared his throat. “Not that I’m still suspicious, but was astrology something you got in yourself, or just because of your father?” 

Thomas shifted his weight to his other foot, scuffing closer to Newt’ side, who returned the movement until they were pressed side to side, a habit they’d started building when the cold started to weave into the winds. “I guess I got into it because of my father, but what made me stay were the different stories, theories, beliefs…” His hand sank down to where the book rested in its pocket. “I always wondered why people made the link between the stars and souls.” 

“I guess it is just like a soul, infinite and unknown. People like the sentiment.” The Xinti’ant’s hands splayed over the railing. “But I don’t think a soul is limited to just the stars. Again, that’s more a belief than a truth.” 

“What do you see?” 

Newt’s gaze shot up from the water, a swift frown - making Thomas think he’d have to elaborate - before his lips started to curl. “Well, Tommy, to actually be able to determine or ‘see’ something like that, you have to be one of the high seers and considering I didn’t want to spend the next buggin’ century stuck in the Capitol, I only learned the basics.” 

“A century?” Thomas blinked. “What did you then learn?” 

“Lotsa things, different beliefs, different reasoning.” Newt bit out a soft laugh. “But ’s not really being able to see things, rather having the ability to pick up signs and identifying them. Heartbeats, breath, changes in muscle positions. Body language, in short.” 

“W-what about me?” Thomas bit his tongue, silently stringing curses together. He shouldn’t give the Xinti’ant the end of the rope that would unwound him, no piece of loose skin that he could peel back to reveal unguarded flesh. But this was Newt, who built himself around Thomas like a rock-solid, unwavering support system and, despite being leashed in the unknown, a friend and clearly something more, if his raging heartbeat was anything to go by. 

“You’ve been here before.” Newt shrugged, as if there wasn’t more to it. The wind cajoled over the deck, howling at the folded sails as if anguished by their hidden form, then raged over their heads. “But I think you already knew that, didn’t ya, Tommy?”


	3. On The Sky's Altar

His foot shot off the rocks, into free air with the depths dangling beneath him. Refined gravel spilled over the edge. His hands tightened around the rope, pulling the blood from his knuckles as Thomas shrank closer to the cold, vine-wrapped stones. 

“When you’re ‘ere, ya gotta make the climb at least once, Tommy. ‘S like the true tourist experience!” Newt’s grin had been akin to sly when he said that and even more so when he started steering Thomas towards the altar.

In their swaying shadows, the prospect of climbing one of Ortji’s altars hadn’t seemed so gruelling. Then again, his eyes had been trailing after the lifts whirring up and down the steep stalactite that hung from the sky and the strings Ziirans marching up the rocks instead of the braided ladder that was going to be his way up. And that left him here, with ropes cutting into his palms and his mind stringing together every curse he could think of.

There were a few other climbers struggling themselves up the floating rock. The sun had risen high enough to skim over the altar and frame the notched mold of its crowning city in a web of light. Thomas craned his head up when loud applause trickled along with the water over the edge, just in time to catch the last outlines of another climber hauling themselves up the altar. 

With laboured breaths, Thomas heaved limb by limb up against the rocks, peeling hands and feet from their resting places and setting what little vigor he’d gained on the Glade to chip away at it. The applause when he finally folded his trembling body over the edge was buried under a ground of screaming muscles and a heaving chest. 

Never again.

“You’re lookin’ a tad bit tired, Tommy,” Newt’s hand ringed around his wrist, towing him off the ground. “Come on, mate. Some moonshine will get ya right up.” 

“I hate you.” Thomas puffed to the grin-splitted face of the Xinti’ant, who still had a loose hold of Thomas’s wrists. He let out an indignant splutter, narrowing his eyes into slits. “And, I think I’ll pass on that.” Then he spun into the city’s shadow. 

Ortji was an estranged resort. Where his hometown had been donned with the delicate hand of Air, Ortji’s settlement seemed as if Earth’s rumbling wrath had beaten its buildings out from the rocks, just like its people. As if the height wasn’t enough for them, lifts whisked between the larger buildings, on which every scrap of flat land was spent. The bulk of housing went lost in the mountain. 

There were no streets curving deeper into the city. The riches etched into the mountains, leading to more narrow doorways were something Thomas rather would indicate as death traps than passable roads and were not something he was planning on setting foot on. The ones that did were promptly declared insane by his means. 

Thomas scrambled over sharp gravel to Newt and the crowd that had amassed around the captain and tucked himself among their shoulders. On the captain’s shoulder rested a thin, emaciated messenger-bird. Its long, dull wings were plastered to its flanks and its bony neck lulled against Nika’s cheek. 

“The Mayatasaur will arrive at the beak of the next sunrise. By then, we will be fully restocked and ready to head for the Crossings. For the ones for whom Ortji is their last stop, may this be a well-found refuge and try not to plunge off the rocks. For those undertaking the Yalet Crossings with us, be back before moon-high. The night will be spent on the ship and then we’ll head for open sea-”

The bird rasped and nailed its claws into the captain’s shoulder. Thomas watched for the quickest flicker of pain, but was left to wait; the captain’s face remained unspoken. 

“There are a few groups, led by Ziirans, all going to different destinations. Stay and travel with those groups, if you stray away from them, you have no one to vouch for your presence. Understood?” 

Heads dipped and bobbed as the captain rounded up her speech. Newt had mentioned something about a group heading to the post office. His heart floundered. “Will you send a word, at least?” were the only words crossing the threshold as his other father braced himself for a rejection that never came, hands biting into the soft meat of his palms. Thomas had nodded. He went over the amount of coins Ortji’s robbing prices were going to demand of him. The least he could do now was live up to this nod. 

~

The sun drooped down the sky, framing the sleek lines of the Matayasaur as it made way from the horizon with her feathered sails bulging in the wind. Dyed in an impeccable black colour with white accents, the ship was like a bare-boned carcass. 

Newt felt a breeze coil around his neck as he flanked the steeled form of his captain. Even with her face tucked in a seamless mask, he felt a quiet jitter of nerves pounding through the metal. 

The gravel crunched beneath Axilae’s feet, who had swapped their frayed robes for a leather tunic, put into breeches. Their collections of flasks and tins had also been replaced with a satchel, filled with an array of all unidentifiable objects that had come along in the passengers’ pockets but failed to slip past the Xinti’ants on board. It had been a tradition Alby started and somehow no one saw it fit to get their own identifier on board, a premise that strengthened its foundation after his death. 

The Mayatasaur was fully equipped for sailing through dark, sightless seas, complete with large lights nestled in the front and back of the ship and tentacles, unbridledly twisting and curling like headless snakes, that skimmed the bottom for threats below the surface. Newt shuddered as those slick fingers clasped around the rocks. 

The two captain’s of the ship were perched on the deck, fint-Hetel’s bent, ratty figure huddled in glittering robes, with now the last of their three sets of nostrils pierced as well, and captain Allerena, whose small, cheerful form just barely peeked out from over the railing.

“Nj’jrsa dar se daur-osa, Gladers.” The voice dropped down from the ship mere seconds before the gangway did. 

Nika returned her salute. “Se daur-osa, Ally!” 

Allerena strode forward, hand extended to hoist them on board; a curtsy that had only been necessary when Newt’s legs had been too short to bridge the gap. 

“Heard you caught your own whiff of the mist.” She said, once all feet were planted firmly on the deck and Newt was being doused in an overbearing herbal scent that always seemed to cling to the walls. 

“Yeah, had to switch onto fuel to get here.” Nika jerked her head to where workers towed barrels to the Glade, to which Allerena hummed, then mentioned for them to follow her. 

The Mayatasaur’s layout mirrored that of the Glade, with only differences being a bigger medical bay and a whole room devoted to identifiers. As far as Newt knew, fint-Hetel was the only identifier on board the ship so why they needed an entire room was beyond his grasp. 

That became clear though, when captain Allerena and Nika had extracted themselves from their silent party and they veered into a rumpled hallway. Doubtless, the size of the room hadn’t been taken into account when they picked one and lugged all the gear in. Shelved walls sloped over the floors and ceiling and were filled to the brim with bizarre objects, ranging from parchment scrolls to the organic frameworks and tools, reminiscent of telescopes. 

The vaulted walls provided Newt with a cramped feeling in his chest and the need to shrank his shoulders together. The skin around his cheek stones tightened as the smell of lumpy candle stubs soiled his palate. 

Fint-Hetel padded past Newt and Axilae to a wooden desk and took place. The older Ziiran propped their wrangled chin on the edge of their palm and smiled, though with their lips delicately cut in four sections, Newt ought it more akin to a ruthless grin, like they enjoyed living up the Ziirans’ unnerving reputation a little bit too much. 

“Dor se-nor zaekir int Oj’jrsa?” fint-Hetel said. Newt ignored the pinprick of annoyance at the pointed exclusion. Maybe he should have paid more attention during linguistics.

Axilae replied in Ziirish as Newt wrenched at dusted recesses of his mind in search for some sherds of Miss Burgon’s lessons. He remembered the adenoidal notes spiking in her voice as it bounced off the marble walls and dripped down the lusters. Ij’jrsa means ‘I’, Nj’jrsa means ‘you’, Oj’jrsa means ‘he’, and after rattling off these words, she’d lift a finger and jab it into thin air as if it were a dart.

Newt’s displeasure seemed to have reached Axilae as they brought the wordflow to a halt. “We’ve got quite a few objects, so let’s get moving.” 

Fint-Hetel’s lips twitched but nonetheless they followed the unspoken command of the other Ziiran, pulling a larger telescope from the shelving and setting it up, lastly pouring a tarry substance into a small tank until the framework shuddered and whirred to life. 

They all worked silently - although Newt stood by idly, whilst being reminded why he prefered joining the captains’ meetings - only pausing to make a brief comment on a lens that needed to be adjusted or the tank being in a need for a refill, until the satchel was empty and Axilae swung it around their shoulders, tugging it in a tighter fit. “That was all. Thank you.” 

Newt faltered at the threshold. Two vials clinked in his pocket, where he’d tucked them last morning after finding them and now, the opportunity to find out were presented on a silver platter, he found that he didn’t actually want to know; knowledge required to be followed up by action. Yet, this was his only chance. 

“There’s… one more thing.” He said, gingerly fishing a vial from his pocket and setting it down, ignoring Axilae’s frowning face leaning closer and muttering something sounding a lot like a curse. 

With a thrumming heart, Newt pinned his gaze on fint-Hetel, on their milky-white hair, their widened eyes and parted lips. When he spoke, his voice belied the riptide of dread rising in his chest. “Can you identify this?” 

He watched as fint-Hetel, wordlessly and with slowed movements, grasped the vail. The Ziiran moved around the telescope, until finding a small spout-shaped opening, letting it disappear out of view and closing the latch. The machine whirred to life one last time. No going back now.


	4. Where Souls Seek Refuge

Newt cowardly found himself unable to meet the eyes of the human in front of him that was getting roughly shoved down into a chair. Instead, he flung all his fury towards fint-Hetel, who was a wizened shadow standing just beyond the light weak candles provided. 

Perhaps, at the core of his bones, he’d known. How one by one the events lined themselves up, from Tommy’s midnight’s confession that he hadn’t been a good person in his previous life to the reaction to the knife Axilae had calmly told him about and then the medicine, hidden in the teddy bear. 

The boredom of lessons wasn’t to blame this time for Newt’s lack of knowledge; there simply hadn’t been many. The very few times they were herded down the medlab by the mousy master Fyron, more time had been spent on gaping at the strange concoctions dripping through glass tubes or watching them evaporate into gas in closed-off chambers.

But it seemed that the medicine wasn’t the main concern, at least not to fint-Hetel. The Ziiran kept an eye on Tommy as if he were a blood-thristy creature that could lung from the chair at any given moment. 

Newt finally tore his gaze away when a jangle of chains disrupted the silence and frowned. “I don’t think that’s necessary.” The surge of anger took him by surprise and he barely managed to keep the snarl from his voice. 

Nika released a sharp cough. “Fint-Hetel, this does not seem necessary to me, this is just a matter of what is likely to be accidental import of medicine-” 

“If he is what I think he is, then trust me, this is very much necessary.” fint-Hetel’s answer was just as incomprehensible as their face. With one last tug at the buckles, the Ziiran stepped away. 

“Thomas Green,” Allerena swiftly chopped up whatever the Ziiran had wanted to say. “You are found guilty of possession of the illegal drug Estogyn, falling under caging-category. Therefore state your last dosis intake honestly and when it has lost effect or when it will.” 

Tommy swallowed, whilst trying to find a comfortable position in the shackled chair, until giving up and slumping down. “This morning was my last intake, it lost effect after I returned to the Glade.” 

Newt fastened his gaze on Tommy, but his eyes refused to dip below his brows, trailing light lines running over his forehead and recalling how his face always rippled when he laughed. 

“Xinti’ant Newt?” Newt blinked.

“Yes,” he snapped, silently cursing himself for his lack of composure. “Yes, heartbeat didn’t waver nor did it sped up.” Now that all of his attention was focused on it, Newt did notice; Tommy’s heart seemed more lively and less like a pre-programmed jitter. 

Allerena leaned backwards in her chair, as if this were a mere tea party. “The risks of using this medicine are astounding, but that aside, do you know why I had you restrained?” 

Tommy shook his head. He was a little too pale, with a white-knuckled grip on the armrests and twitching his leg up and down but the captains could hardly blame him for that, given that he was shackled in a bloody chair. 

Allerena folded her hands. “It’s not because you carry this medicine. It’s because of the reason you take this. But you already knew that, didn’t you?” 

Tommy flinched but remained silent. The captain’s question didn’t really warrant an answer. A frown crawled up Newt’s face and he felt himself leaning closer towards Allerena’s small form. What was she getting at?

As if his thoughts had spilled from his lips, captain Allerena picked up the thread. “You are a Dweller, are you not?” 

~ 

It went eerily quiet in Thomas’ head. On the wings of that silence came a feeling of peace, the kind you’d find on a battlefield, after every warrior had taken the fall to the ground. Now they knew and he’d be whisked off back to Ebaurn to serve a prison sentence for a crime he did not commit. 

A bitter laugh nearly wrangled itself free from his lips. “One can not be blamed for the act of another.” What a slogan that was. 

Nika cocked her head at him, the usual fear and anger amiss for her expression. “Why did you board the Glade? Why take such risk, if you,” she nodded at the vial. “have the perfect way to stay hidden?” 

His fingers twitched. “It’s no permanent solution. Those drugs are getting harder and harder to find. The war between Ebaurn and The Lower Fitarith is only making that worse.” 

The briming war had meant that the tap would only tighten and less and less would make it across the border. For a batch this large, Thomas had to spend nearly all of his savings. Just in time too, because the next morning, the Ebaurnite guard was standing for the door of his source. 

Nika closed her eyes and pinched her nose. “So you fled Ebaurn and now you seek asylum in Faye’tier, I assume you’re heading for Re Aterion.” 

“Yep,” he said, then quickly swallowed any other quirky, definitely not appropriate responses. Can’t get comfortable yet, no matter how good the situation was starting to look. 

“Alright, Thomas, I’m going to let you stay because,” Nika swiveled to the right and narrowed her eyes at Newt. “I don’t have a death wish. Plus, we’re out on the water, I think we can push the laws a little.”

Thomas tried to lunge out of his chair, then remembered his wrists were still in shackles. “I get to stay?” He asked breathlessly. 

Nika raised a silent finger. “Under a few conditions, littl’ one. First, the medical bay will be off limits to you as well as the kitchen and the armory. Secondly, anything that triggers you, I wanna know of it and lastly, someone will be keeping an eye on you at all times.” 

Thomas lowered his head as relief ran rampant in his pulse. Any condition he’d take if it meant he could stay.

“All in favour?” Nika asked as a last formal closing. “fint-Hetel?” 

Fint-Hetel’s dark eyes sailed up. “I.. shall trust your judgement.” 

~

Faye’tier dusted itself on the horizon, gaining shape and detail like the timelapse of a painting. Newt stood shouldered between a young Aerniod, whose horns were laced with sparkling beads and gold-rimmed feathers and Tommy, a mirror-image of when they first met, complete with his travelpack stacked on his shoulders. 

Thin salvos of flutes bolted between the ships and Yalet’s wide stretched quay, relaying erratic codes. More passengers spilled from the Glade’s belly onto the deck, all lugging large sacks with them. 

“Come on, if we stay here, we’ll get trampled.” Newt nodded at the silent dozen of Galtorns behind them, their unwieldy bodies blocking the path of many other hampered passengers. 

“Where are we getting off then?” Tommy asked. 

Newt didn’t answer, but scampered through the crowd, giving Tommy’s sleeve a tug to push him into motion, dragging him to the stern of the ship, where Minho sat perched on a throne of barrels. He called out. “Aye, Min, where do we dock?” 

“We’re takin’ the ones on the Southside,” Minho grinned. “Gonna use the sailers, huh?” 

“Damn, right.” He accepted the hand the other Xinti’ant had offered and let himself be towed up the barrels. “Nothin’ better than a grand exit.” 

Tommy was heaved up the barrel as well, Newt rashly hooked an arm around his ribs to prevent him from toppling off, ignoring Minho’s side-eyed look and focused on the Mayatasur, who drifted at their side. On her deck as well passengers had gathered in dense flocks, patiently awaiting for the nearing docks, which laid upon the water like felled trees. 

“You see that tower over there, Tommy?” The young human tilted his head askew. “That’s the Southern Centicair and those things are the sailers.” Newt jabbed his finger at one of the small, brindled carriages, rattling over an iron rails, raised high above the water. If they were docking were Newt thought they would, then carriages would whirr just over their heads. 

Tommy’s mouth popped open. “And how are we going to get on there?” 

Newt smirked, then twisted around to sort through the tangled mash of ropes until he fingered out the one he was on the hunt for. A thick braided rope with a hook attached to the end.

“With good aim and a lotta luck, mate.” 

Ignoring Tommy’s splutters of protest, he bound the rope around his waist in a tight harnas then clambered back up the barrels. “Come on, Tommy! We gotta get higher up!” 

Flinging a helpless look at Minho, he climbed after Newt, higher up the stocking piles. 

“Aight, go stand here.” New said. Tommy went to stand where Newt directed him to, eyes tracking the carriages. The quay was brought closer and closer, close enough for Newt to hear the shouts of workers, the rattling of bypassing sailers and more salvo’s of whistles.

Newt counted the seconds passing between the sailers, then took stand. “Grab on tight and don’t let go, unless you wanna get wet.” 

The young human stepped into his hold. The next carriage hummed nearer and Newt tightened his grip on Tommy, hook ready. Its shadow pulled over them and Newt threw the hook. In the space between two squelched heartbeats, the hook coursed through the air, weavering and winged by Newt’s swing, until it clasped around one of the iron rods strung between the two sides of the carriage. 

They were swooped off their feet and Tommy yelped, with his fingers digging into Newt’s shoulder blades with a bruising force. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” 

Newt laughed and his pulse surged. They fired up, their ankles grazing the thick sails as startled shouts from passengers rose up from beneath them. Amongst them, Newt spied the shaking form of his captain. 

Dangling from the sailer, Yalet’s quay was like a maze of narrow docks and twisting towers, crawling with ants. The Syari River dwindled into a thinner stream that one emitted tinier boats and vessels and dug further inland. 

The rails curved back to the quay and started dropping, urging Newt to outstretch his legs and brace himself for the landing. His feet scraped over the ground, hobbling along until the carriage slowed enough for him to come to a stumbling halt, with Tommy crashing into his back. 

The familiar clench of laughter took hold over his muscles, powered by pure and uncurbed euphoria that marched through him. Newt peeked up at Tommy, tracing the soft lines in his forehead and crow’s feet forming on his temples, then down to his lips, which pushed up his cheeks. On the heels of euphoria came something else and Newt knew he was fucked.

“Well? How was that?” Newt cleared his throat and started undoing the knots, freeing himself from the ropes, wincing when they slid away from where they’d cut into his inner thigh. 

Tommy craned his head up. “Well, nothing will ever be able to top that exit.” He panted. 

Newt swept his eyes over the heads, horns and feather bundles. It had been so long since he’d actually set foot on the lands he’d once called home. Details had blurred in foggy shadows of memories. 

“So,” Tommy said, “Guess this is goodbye?” 

Newt hoisted a smile onto his face. “Guess so, now I got no one to teach me about sparkly stars, aye?” 

“You got the book.” Newt smiled at the reminder of the book, tucked a map of the Unbound Four and other parchment scrolls he hadn’t looked at in years. It would not be the same with the book; he would be going through that, memorising yellowed pages with wonky drawings and nearly indecipherable inscriptions and notes, even long after Tommy had left. 

“True, I owe you one.” Newt swallowed, before dropping the ropes and bundling Tommy into a hug. “Goodbye, mate.” 

He felt Tommy squeeze back, retreating way too soon but returning with something sweeter. In a soft intake of breath, Newt floated unmoored in twin pools of brown, before those lips gently laid themselves on his. 

“I prefer you owing me a kiss, instead of a book.”


End file.
